The First Supervision

Greetings all,

Yesterday marked my first supervision of my second PhD undertaking. I sincerely believe that this one will come to fruition. For the history of my first PhD attempt, which was in English and looked at place-names in Derbyshire, just look at any draft of any work that you never finished and never will. That is my first, abandoned, undertaking.

But this, my second, has begun beautifully. To say it is radically different from the first is to underestimate everything, for it is the difference between attempting to walk up a down-escalator and running up an up-escalator: both methods may get you there in the end, but in the first illustration you’ve got to wonder whether or not the idea wasn’t a bit ridiculous. In the second, the escalator works in your favour and that is exactly what my supervisor does: assists, lifts, and keeps me from falling into the shoppers down below.

To summarise our supervision:

We discussed some of the texts that influenced The Pilgrim’s Regress including, of course, Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress and Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene. Lewis was, of course, a great scholar of sixteenth-century literature and my next reading will be his volume in the Oxford Handbook of English Literature–what he called his OHEL book–entitled ‘English Literature in the Sixteenth Century Excluding Drama.’ These, alongside Plato’s The Republic, will form the basis of my reading for the next month, as I begin to form an outline of the patterns Lewis builds, and builds upon, for his narrative.

We also discussed The Confessions of St. Augustine, an obvious autobiographical work of conversion as well as confession, with parallels to The Pilgrim’s Regress, but I felt that City of God held more sway or weight in Lewis’ work. We shall see. St. Thomas Aquinas is another great theological writer worth exploring throughout this project and certainly his Summa Theologiae features in Lewis’ vast reading. I haven’t figured out where or how, yet.

We talked of course of conversion narratives and some of the scholarly work done on them–particularly those of the sixteenth- and seventeenth-century. There really was no need for Lewis to write a conversion narrative–no one demanded it, and it was not a common practice in 1932, but he did, and it has proved enlightening and difficult all at once. I am already familiar with the project from the Center for Early Modern Studies at York University: Conversion Narratives in Early Modern Europe, A Cross-Confessional and Comparative Study, 1550-1700, which formed the basis for my proposal. But there is much more to be explored, and my purpose in this exploration is, again, to draw the framework of the narrative form and see how Lewis followed and diverged from it.

Side note: One of the texts I’ve been picked up for this project is Alan Jacobs’ Year of Our Lord 1943. I was interested in reading this because I enjoyed The Narnian (2005) and the articles he’s written about reading and literary attention. However, this particular work does not provide the same sort of thoughtful message as the others, and I struggled to find and keep the narrative thread as I went along. Indeed, I have not finished the book because I’d no idea what I was reading for! When I presented the title to Alison, my supervisor, she shared a similar experience of being a bit disappointed, and even bewildered in that it did not cover some of what she believed were key points and events of that year. I was not looking for those points, necessarily, but I confess I have struggled to clearly see where it is going.

Talk of Haddon and its famous, ancient roses, of Dorothy Vernon and her romantic getaway with John Manners also featured in the conversation, which took place, as all academic meetings now are, on Teams.

Now to read. On we go, ever the pilgrim!

A Post from a January Journal

4 January 2019, Friday

Began by reading in Lewis the chapter on Friendship in The Four Loves.  Here are some reflections and excerpted passages:

‘Hence true Friendship is the least jealous of loves.  Two friends delight to be joined by a third, and three by a fourth, if only the newcomer is qualified to become a real friend.  They can then say, as the blessed souls say in Dante, “Here comes the one who will augment our loves.”  For in this love “to divide is not to take away.”’ p. 92

‘In this, Friendship exhibits a glorious “nearness by resemblance” to Heaven itself where the very multitude of the blessed (which no one can number) increases the fruition which each has of God. For every soul, seeing Him in her own way, doubtless communicates that unique vision to all the rest. That says an old author, is why the Seraphim in Isaiah’s vision are crying “Holy, Holy, Holy” to one another (Isaiah VI, 3).  The more we thus share the Heavenly Bread between us, the more we shall all have.’ p. 92-3

‘The sensible women who, if they wanted, would certainly be able to qualify themselves for the world of discussion and ideas, are precisely those who, if they are not qualified, never try to enter it or destroy it.  They have other fish to fry.  At a mixed party they gravitate to one end of the room and talk women’s talk to one another.  They don’t want us, for this sort of purpose, any more than we want them.  It is only the riff-raff of each sex that wants to be incessantly hanging on the other.’ p. 110

“You have not chosen me, but I have chosen you,” and “You have not chosen one another but I have chosen you for one another.” 

This is really just a tasting of this chapter, and this book.  If I were to summarise this chapter it would have to include a sentence or two, a thought at the very least, on what Lewis says about the dangers of Friendship as well as its shining attributes.  For what we are seeing in the vitriol, anger, and division of our country, the United States of America, is in a sense this friendship gone entirely wrong.  Lewis has written about the ‘Inner Ring’ in a separate essay or lecture, but he does not hold back from including much of that sentiment and warning here.  The need for approval, accpetance and coterie are, as we know, incredibly strong, and the vehicle of friendship—perhaps less friendship than loyalty, agreements—serves to move this vice forward.  A quote on the matter, worth including, is this one: ‘But the dangers are perfectly real.  Friendship (as the ancients saw) can be a school of virtue; but also (as they did not see) a school of vice.  It is ambivalent.  It makes good men better and bad men worse.  It would be a waste of time to elaborate the point.’ p. 115.

Manuscript

Formally, a manuscript is a hand-written document, and an illuminated manuscript is a handwritten document decorated in or with precious metals, such as gold or sparkling jewels. But the informal measure of a manuscript tends toward something altogether different.  Somewhat akin to my passion for books before my History of the Book class and the formal, true, illuminated passion I now possess, is the difference between what the general populace thinks a manuscript is and what it really is–its nuance, its depth, its ability to cause obsession.  That is now my lot, thanks to the University of Nottingham School of English.

Who knew?  Really, I guess I did.  I just never acknowledged it to an extent that led me to study so profusely and profoundly and so productively.  I have always liked–nay, loved, I have loved–books and all kinds of paper.  I have loved inks and texts, scripts, bindings, impressed leathers (a recent discovery, but a love nonetheless), manual production, for as long as I can remember, in one way or form or another.  Whether it was snipping sheets of paper into tiny rectangles in order to staple them back together again in a crudely bound form, or that collection of quills, pen nibs, sealing wax and inks in my middle desk-drawer and this fetish I’ve cultivated for touching the cotton stock at the art store.  I am hooked.

Hooked, I tell you.  And according to my brilliant tutor, Joanna Martin, that’s the least of it.  An all-out obsession (as noted above) awaits.  I do not intend to staunch it.

This is what drives my days, these days:

This blog: The British Library’s Medieval Manuscripts Blog

And these websites: National Archives Paleography & Medieval Writing

And words like the one above: paleography, and colophon, and miniscule and minim, and minium and rubrication and codex and codices.  And Chaucer, for whom I have only until now had a sort of passing respect, is climbing in importance. So are people whose names I will never know, but who penned or fabricated or outlined or decorated the beauties I pore over.

Today I realized that this is what I want to do.  I want to study manuscripts.  I am 40 years old and it took me all this time to get my sh*t together to figure this out.  So, off I go then, to describe the Gothic Textura, to learn how it differed from the Anglicana script (and all of its variations).  Delightful.

 

The search for meaning in community

Lately I have been struggling to understand why we are here living in a new house on Whidbey Island.  We moved in such a rush and in a whirlwind of hurryup hurryup!  I’m not even certain how the final blows upon our old life were executed but here we are now, safely, soundly installed in our new life and making a go in our new community.

For us, the community literally begins at home, with the very house we purchased.  It is part of something previously unknown to me (or us), called a co-housing, where people do pretty much just that: co-house.  This is entirely different from ‘co-habit’, so let’s get that settled straightaway.  Co-housing, as far as I can describe it thus far, is a concept as well as an instituion and in our case, that of Maxwelton Creek Co-housing, what that means is we share a lot of stuff and we can’t escape one another, even if we try.

Every Monday is potluck.  At around 6:30 on Monday evenings members of the community gather in our common house for a shared meal.  While this sounds like some kind of freakish Walden Two model, rest assured it’s more along the lines of Whole Foods or PCC with some VW bus thrown in for good measure.  John and I are not so keen on potlucks–or perhaps it is me, I who am not so keen on them, but nevermind–so every Monday, around 4:00, the world stops still for just long enough for a small kitchen panic to occur and then resolve itself, reappearing in the form of pizza crust or applesauce or pie.  I am never the clever one with the four-layer vegetarian fritatta or the lentil-couscous salad slaw.  But again, nevermind.  They cannot kick us out because we are Members, homeowners with a mortgage and a cat who does not kill the songbirds.  We have not only chosen this crazy co-housing place but, somehow, it has also chosen us.

Which brings me to my struggles.  Why we are here.  Why ARE we here?  I’ve a little inkling but it is so small I am afraid to do more than whsiper it in case it hears me and runs away frightened.  Still.  A hush.  Silently.  Shush… I believe we are here to be ministers.

What means that… ministers?  I will tell you.  We are here to follow God.  We are here to learn faith and to encounter doubt, to embrace those who have not been able to hold back the love or the doubt themselves but are wanting affirmation, guidance.  We, too, are those people, and it is with God’s help that we will encounter our own mentors, guides, encouragements.

I sit here tonight and recall the past several weeks’ worth of Thursday Coffees in which Lea and Margaret have wandered over to us and shared their time and their stories and then have shared in addition their homes and spaces with us, pouring wine and playing music.  This is ministry.  Ministers are not always ever wearing black and thumbing passages.  We are ministers in our love, and in our struggles as well as our confidence and faith.

I will continue to write.  But for now, let it be private.  The Peace of the Lord be with You.

Jesu Crist in Chaucer

I do not rightly know whether this post belongs in Nigelvalentine or Pilcrow, where I have a ‘From the Bookshelf’ category, but it pertains to the balance between hardship and Christ (in literature, at least).

In my reading, throughout my days, I have noticed a distinct presence of the mention of Jesus in literature as recent as the early part of the 20th Century.  This presence is in direct contrast to its absence in contemporary literature and I have noticed it on several levels.  The first, obviously, is from the level of my faith, where I need to acknowledge the Father and the Son in all my interactions and in every place.  The next is from the level of literature, seeing the presence of the reference in context, how it fits into the story or piece of writing, and only afterward questioning why it is there.  That is the third level. But my comment actually runs askew from all of these.

In reading Chaucer’s Retraction, the final lines of The Canterbury Tales, this line appears, “Now preye I to hem alle that herkne this litel tretis or rede, that if ther be any thing in it that lyketh hem, that ther-of they thanken oure lord Jesu Crist, of whom procedeth al with and al goodnesse.”  In other words, ‘If you, the reader, find something of interest in this book or these tales, I thank Jesus Christ.’

Why would he write this?  And why would he even mention Christ?  My guess is that it was not uncommon to him, nor to his contemporaries, readers, family or colleagues, to keep Christ close, and that would include in writing.  My hunch is that in these days, the Middle Ages, that is, people were much more aware of Christianity, of Christ’s sacrifice, of the Bible.  Yes, life was probably more difficult in some ways in the 1300s than it is now, but I believe that those difficulties were countered by a greater stockpile–collective stockpile, that is, a communal one–of faith, hope, and perseverance.  Love certainly played its role, too.

But in contrast, and I don’t mean to play the role of finger-pointing Christian here, our lives in the 21st Century are quite easy, our water comes from pipes, our waste disappears into the ground, and we can google just about anything.  At least, that is the way of First World nations.  But our literature, our art, and all the thought that is collected in them and from them are less beautiful, less stricken with the knowledge of one’s limitations, and perhaps even less appealing to the world in general.  How much of what is cranked out today will be found in coffers, libraries, and on gallery walls?  Christ survives, and when His life is brought into our books and our images and our minds, those things survive, too.

As I say, I do not know what kind of theorizing this really is, but I have noticed it, this absence of Christ’s presence in our daily reading, and I am sorry for the gap it has produced.

Spoleto Style

Last year we went to Italy.  Our favorite city turned out to be…

Most delightful Italian City you'll Never find in Rick Steves....

It had everything.  But unfortunately (or not?), it did not turn up in Rick Steves Italy.

Hm. No bother.  We managed quite fine without him.

John in the Golf.  Sweet. Go Volkswagen!!

Driving to Spoleto!!

Yes, the Autostrada, or whatever it is called, definitely called to John.

Look at me! There are flying nuns behind me! I heart Spoleto!

Me in front of the Santa Maria dell’Assunta.

I don’t think we actually called it that when we were there.

We simply referred to it as The Place with the Lippis.

What with all this glorious art....

Is the camera on?

Naturally we were spellbound.

But that is not the whole story.

That one will take years to unwind, and when it is unwound, another decade to retell.

Buona notte!

The St. John’s Bible

If you haven’t already heard of this amazing piece of illuminated beauty, do read on. I have nothing really to say that the work itself does not, in its massive scope and dedication, already utter so eloquently.

But since this blog is my device, I fear my paltry words will have to suffice and so I share the mystery, the wonder, the awe that is the St. John’s Bible, a dream-scope of true craftsman and calligraphic genius Donald Jackson, artist and man of God.

This bible is the first of its kind since the middle ages, scripted entirely by hand on vellum–sheep’s hide, treated in a very particular way so as to hold the ink, also crafted in particular way, very labor-intensive, and so as not to fade or crumble–includes, in addition to the Word, a spellbinding array of images. Images, not just pictures, paintings,  designs, or media, but art…art the way it should be, and is when love meets craft.

This Bible is holy, I must think. I have not yet seen it, in its naked form that is, but twelve years ago I came upon an edition of the Smithsonian that took both my breath away and my doubt with it.  Never again was I to question the value or the necessity of art.  I opened the cover to find a process of words meeting spirit meeting love and all the while a dancing-pen light filled my itching nerve to create such an ultimate book.  To form something from nothing and have it hold weight.  Far from the empty ephemera of the Internet, this Manuscript held weight. And I gather it still does, as I have seen it crop up in posts, strands of conversation or NPR news bursts. I feel smug for a while thinking that I discovered it all before the rest of the modern world did, but then retract my smugness when I recall that someone–a very lucky and privileged someone–researched and wrote the article I read.

From a little child I have adored manuscripts, illuminated or otherwise, and hand-written, hand writing a manuscript was every bit as tantalizing as skiing was for my friends, or birding is for my grandmother.
The hand-art-craft of this work stuns me, but more than that, it reconciles me to believing that my God is a God of wonder and of beauty. All those words are beautiful on their own, simply because they are the words of God. But written in such a way, with such dedication and honesty in craft must make them stronger, if not simply more beautiful. The desire to read these words grows in me, as does the desire to make well my gift to the Lord, to bear my calling, to live in the majesty of his Word.
http://www.saintjohnsbible.org/

Babettes gæstebud

Image via Wikipedia

Treehouse

Nigel on Disco Night

It is a good night when the tree dances better than you do.

Hayley’s Cat

The following is a piece of digital art created by my 7-year-old niece, Hayley Elizabeth, whom I neglected to mention was a relation in my About page.  My most sincere apologies, Hayley.  And apologies too, to the website from which she took the original idea.  But it this not the age of digital inspiration?

The Naming of Cats is a Difficult Matter

The awesome thing about Hayley–or one of the awesome things. as there are so many–is that she possesses massive store of confidence.  She is enormously confident.  I love this.  When John and I were home for a few days, packing up our apartment and moving everything we couldn’t take to Alaska to my parents’ house, mom told me a story about Hayley and Camilla Parker Bowles.

It seems Hayley had acquired a Webkinz by the name of Camilla.  Normally Hayley renames the Webkinz, often gracing them with the original name as a middle name, but dubbing them something altogether new and original.  Hayley-style.  This time, however, she took a few moments to listen to my mom–her Nana–explain the story of Prince Charles’ new bride.  She paid utter attention. When my mother asked her, Did she know the Queen of England?  Hayley purportedly replied, You mean Elizabeth the Second?  And mom said Yes.

From there she went on to spin the gracelessly romantic tale of Charles and Camilla. Hayley followed from pre-Diana to post-Diana and upon conclusion of British morality tale, promptly declared the new Webkinz to be named Queenie.  Queenie Camilla.   When mom explained that Camilla would never become Queen, Hayley disregarded it, stating that her Webkinz could be called whatever she wanted.

And although my generation, and perhaps your generation too, admires Diana for her pluck and her individuality, I admire Hayley.  For she was not born when Diana emerged from the horse-drawn carriage on July 29, 1980-something.  And she was not there for the grief bestowed upon a palace the morning after a tragedy in Paris.  And to her, Camilla seems just as romantic a partner for Charles as Cinderella for Prince Charming.